


The Guardian of the Eastern Gate

by Periphyton



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, parental abandonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 12:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20008405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periphyton/pseuds/Periphyton
Summary: Aziraphale hasn't forgotten that he once stood guard over Eden. When Crowley comes to him for help with Warlock having nightmares he knows what to do.





	The Guardian of the Eastern Gate

**Author's Note:**

> Ashtoreth has she/her pronouns, Crowley has he/him pronouns. Not that Crowley cares about pronouns but that's the general writing convention.

Nanny Ashtoreth woke suddenly from her nap. From the baby monitor at her desk connected to the one in young Warlocks room came small, whimpering noises, and the kind of sniffle that only a small child crying in his sleep could make. The Antichrist was having a nightmare, and nobody in the big house cared but his nanny. 

“Warlock, dear, wake up little one, this is just a dream.” She gently patted the boys hand, trying to wake him up and searching for any hint of demonic or hellish influences outside of her own. There wasn’t anything occult, just a small boy shaking with night terrors. He kicked the covers off but still couldn’t wake up until Ashtoreth gave him just enough of a shock of energy for him to open his eyes wide, his face covered in tears and snot from crying in his sleep. When he saw her, he crawled straight into her lap with a pre-verbal wail and buried his face into her plush dressing gown.

After enough shushing and rocking, the boy was finally calm enough to use his words. “Now, dear, tell me what the bad dream was about,” Nanny Ashtoreth asked him, gently but firmly.

Little Warlock sniffled. “Couldn’t find my mum,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “She wasn’t looking at me so she couldn’t see me and then I couldn’t find her. And you were gone and nobody could see me and I was lost . . .” he trailed off into the half-hearted crying of an exhausted child. 

Ashtoreth sighed, and held him a little tighter. A warm and scented washcloth miraculously appeared in her hand to wash his face and sooth his eyes. Eventually he cried himself to sleep, while his nanny sang a lullaby in a language older than the earth to a little boy whose mother didn’t care enough even to look at him. 

**********

“He’s been like this ever since that stupid wedding.” Crowley sighed, and took another gulp of wine. 

“Ever since the – oh. Oh my. The poor dear.” Aziraphale poured himself some more wine. Two weeks ago, Mrs. Dowling had been the Matron of Honor to the daughter of some friend/colleague/political buddy of Mr. Dowling. It had been quite the production, all politics and press. Donations had been made, strings had been pulled, and the whole affair took place at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Mrs. Dowling was forced to look after her son on her own for the better part of three days during rehearsal dinner, rehearsal ceremony, photo shoot for the bride and groom, photo shoot for the family, photo shoot for the press, tea party for the bride, bridesmaids, and matron of honor, the actual wedding, and the final reception afterwards. Nothing the Dowling family could offer or threaten had made any difference to Nanny Ashtoreth’s statement that she could not attend any part of the wedding, or go with them to care of Warlock and keep him occupied and away from his mother. In the end Crowley and Aziraphale had to coordinate their miracles to cover the family’s memory of Ashtoreth’s disappearance for the entire week. 

The adults may not have cared enough to notice, but Warlock had had nightmares of his mother not seeing him and getting lost ever since. The boy didn’t blame his nanny, but Crowley still felt guilty. It wasn’t his fault that Nanny Ashtoreth couldn’t walk into a church but that was his baby Antichrist crying in his sleep about being lost. 

“It’s always the same. She wouldn’t look at him, so he can’t find her, and he doesn’t know where he is, so he gets lost and falls down. That’s when he wakes up.” Crowley’s fingers where very tight holding his mug of wine. “He still had bruises on his head and that scrape on his knee when they got back.” After extracting a garbled story about an attempt at a banister slide that ended head first into the marble staircase Nanny had kissed the bruises to make them better by making them disappear. (1)

A wail mixed with static crackled from Crowley’s pocket. He groaned. “Zira, I gotta go, I have to - I mean, Ashtoreth has to -“

“I know dear. Give our little hellspawn hug, and I’ll think of something. Send him to Brother Frances in the morning, will you?” Aziraphale patted the demon on the back. “I’m sure Francis will help.”

“I hope so, for all our sakes.” Crowley got up as the wailing increased in volume. When he stepped across the threshold of the gardener’s shed he snapped his fingers and Nanny Lilith Ashtoreth strode down to the house where her charge was crying in his sleep. 

********

“Nanny look what Brother Francis gave me! He said that it would catch all the bad dreams and keep them away from me.” The boy ran up to his nanny, his knees dirty from kneeling in the ground helping Brother Francis dig up, split apart, and replant some hostas. 

“Let me see it, my dear, don’t wave it around like a bubble wand.” Nanny Ashtoreth held out her hand for Warlock to give her the circle hoop with a woven pattern inside it, and feathers dangling around the edge. “Now tell me properly what this is.”

“It’s a dreamcatcher. Brother Francis said to put this over my bed so I can sleep all night and only have pure and lovely dreams.” Warlock explained.

“How thoughtful. That was very kind of Brother Francis,” Nanny Ashtoreth said as she examined the dreamcatcher. It had been bought from a store instead of miracled into existence, with a turquoise bead in the woven design and several feathers dangled from the edges. Ashtoreth ran her fingers over the feathers. The longer ones where just regular feathers, probably duck feathers, but tucked in with them were smaller, fluffy ones, pure white and shimmering. Angel feathers – Azirapahale’s feathers. Fluffy and innocuous but still filled with the same divine grace as the largest flight primary. This was a dreamcatcher that would actually live up to it’s purpose of catching bad dreams. “We can put this over your bed tonight and I promise you will sleep the night through.”

“You promise?” The boy looked up at her, the dark smudges under his eyes showing the toll nights of bad sleep was taking on him.

“I promise. Now, I believe its time to get cleaned up for lunch.”

That night they put up the dreamcatcher together but Warlock was still clingy, whining and demanding an extra snack, one more story, now he needed a drink of water, just one more story no I don’t want to sleep Nanny I have to potty. Nanny Ashtoreth didn’t really blame him for being afraid to sleep but she put just a touch of sleepy magic into her last lullaby to get him to relax into sleep. She stayed by him, as she promised to, until he was breathing deeply in peaceful, angelically protected sleep.

Finally she retired into her own room in the Dowling household. It wasn’t worth the effort to shift from Ashtoreth to Crowley so she just stayed as she was, slumped down in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face. Warlocks nightmares had hit a little too close to her own dreams of falling after She wouldn’t even look at Her long-lost child. 

A cup of tea. That’s what Aziraphale would give her, and there was no point in brooding. A cup of tea, that fixes everything, right? She got up to start the water and finally noticed the large envelope of the table. Large, flat, and completely unmarked except for an outline of angel wings in the top corner. She opened it and caught her breath when she held another dreamcatcher, slightly smaller than Warlocks. This one was hand crafted, not store bought, with yellow and blue topaz beads and only pure white feathers, covert feathers as long as her hand. Ashtoreth held it to her chest and closed her eyes, remembering standing beneath Aziraphale’s wings on the wall of the Garden of Eden. Finally she put it down and opened the fold of paper that came with it.

“Pleasant dreams my dear,” the note read, in English. It was signed not with a name but with a sigil, a gold mark of identity deeper than a mere name. Ashtoreth traced it with her finger – The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Still guarding his demon, and now their little antichrist, from any bad dreams that would disturb them. 

*******

1\. It really was just a banister slide gone bad – not anything more abusive than the neglect that had him wandering a strange church in a foreign country where he didn’t speak the language. It was still a rather spectacular crack on the head though.


End file.
